Sherlock: The Long Shot
by VeritasVamp
Summary: Chapter one of six. John is hungry and convinces Sherlock to eat as well, but they are interrupted... A humorous intro to a story that will take a sharp turn when someone's life is threatened. Using the BBC's Sherlock characters. Much thanks to the creators/writers and actors of the show. I own nothing.
1. Chapter 1

John Watson slapped his laptop shut with a sudden decisive act. He tilted his head back and sighed as he stretched his neck. Writing his blog had become something he enjoyed despite its side effects resulting in a stiff neck and soreness in that damned leg. He no longer limped, of course. Though that didn't mean he was without the occasional ache and pain. Sherlock had been plucking away at his violin all this time, yet it only now drew John's attention.

Watson thought Sherlock had been taking this particular lull in criminal activity rather well. Despite having to wrestle his handgun away from Sherlock to spare the wall, John was glad to not be dealing with his usually frenetic energies.

"Sherlock. . ." John spoke.

The reply was a barely noticeable hum.

"We haven't eaten today, have we?"

"Boring."

At this John's brows furrowed in unspoken confusion, "What is? Eating's boring?"

"Of course." The pain of boredom in Sherlock's voice amused his friend.

John simply smirked. He stood, heading straight for the refrigerator. "Well we still have to eat; boring or otherwise. Mrs Hudson shouldn't always have to remind us." Then he opened the fridge. A moment after the initial shock John thought that he should be used to this by now. There, inside the fridge, was a pair of feet severed at the ankle and sitting on a platter beside the milk. Watson had nearly managed to stifle the outcry this time, but he pressed his lips together a moment longer.

"Sherlock, why. . . No," He interrupted himself. "No, I don't care. I don't want to know." He shut the refrigerator door.

His military strides carried John back to the sitting room. He stopped to watch Sherlock a moment without moving. Seemingly unnerved by this

Sherlock looked up from his violin as if realising he's missed something. "What?"

John decided for himself, and then informed his flat mate, "We're going out. To eat."

Sherlock replaced his violin in its case and stated, "Won't people talk?" Sherlock smirked.

John tilted his head to side as he rolled his eyes. "Well we have to eat."

"Mrs Hudson. . ."

"No Sherlock," Watson interrupted. "It's. . . We're not her responsibility. So what do you want? Pizza?"

John had made the final suggestion with a private smile, saying as a joke for himself, since the entire concept seemed uncharacteristic of their friendship. For John, just thinking of Sherlock in the setting most associated with socially adept university students was enough to make him laugh. Then came Sherlock's reply. He stood abruptly and regarded John with his ever-analyzing expression.

"Pizza," he stated, as if for the first time. "Pizza would be interesting actually. I've never had pizza before."

Again, John found himself flabbergasted. "What," he blurted. "You've not had pizza, ever?"

John watched with furrowed brow as Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets and ignored his friend's amazed reaction. He answered in the negative to confirm John's question, all the while peering out of their second story window. Another nearly inaudible response followed, which sounded to John as if he had seen something interesting out on the street. John disregarded the latter, still focused on this newly discovered gap in Sherlock's experience.

"You do realise, Sherlock, that everyone, and I mean everyone has eaten pizza at some point in their life."

"Clearly not, John. And don't generalise. Given the massive diversity of even Britain alone. . ."

"Okay, let me stop you there, Sherlock," John interrupted, getting his coat and heading toward the door. "I don't care. I don't. I do care that I'm hungry and I've talked, at least myself, into having pizza tonight. Are you coming?"

Sherlock smiled in the way the touched only the corner of his eyes and only slightly at his mouth. "Yes. Of course. Lead the way, John."

It seemed to Watson that there was an odd manner in the way Sherlock followed behind. Then again, it was Sherlock. However, John was made to understand the subtext of that strange interaction the moment he stepped outside of 221B onto Baker Street.

Sherlock had said just what he needed in exactly the way he needed to produce that question in John's mind. The quiet "Why" that made Watson lower his usual military guard and look back toward Sherlock just as he exited the flat. As intended, John's eyes were still on Sherlock when the attack came.


	2. Chapter 2

John felt a strong hand grab hold of his jacket and regretted that he was off balance. He was pulled roughly into the grip of a slightly taller man. But it was the knife Watson found against his throat that caused the adrenaline to spike. His attacker had placed himself against the fence to the right of 221B, with John between himself and Sherlock. At first, John had put a hand to the arm wielding the knife, but only to steady himself.

Presently both hands had form fists that were held in stasis in front of him. These fists were not intended to strike the man, but rather served as a place for the energy to go. A strained voice came in his ear, "Don't move Dr Watson." John's eyes met Sherlock's and it was then that he saw the complete lack of concern on the consulting detective's face. Following that was John's realisation, "You saw him, you let me. . ."  
The grip on his neck tightened forcefully making John stop himself short. Sherlock observed the tense and even hurt expression on his friend's face. He disregarded it in favour of assessing the man with the knife. It took a mere moment.

Tall, well-muscled but slightly overweight. Unkempt hair; hasn't been cut in a while. Well-worn clothing, two days since washing. Boots. Work boots. Heavily scuffed. This man was a hard worker; not rich but not completely destitute either. Grim in the fingernails and cuticles: Mechanic. By the distinct scent of grease, factory machinery. But it was the position of the knife, a standard hunter's knife that piqued Sherlock's interest. The spine of the blade touched John's throat, but the sharp of the blade faced away. One last detail sealed Sherlock's deductions.

Sherlock relaxed, taking a step further toward the street. He saw a taxi cab rounding the corner. He was about to call for it when John braved a shout. "Sherlock! I know you've done your. . .thing, so just get on with it." Sherlock smiled when his back was facing them, and then whirled to lock eyes with John's captor. He spoke in a blunt, calm manner.

"Who has her?"

"What," the man questioned, with that familiar rising inflection that told Sherlock Holmes he was right.  
A tiny smile started at the corner of his mouth but John had conditioned him to mask the enjoyment he got out of this. Apparently it hurt people's feelings.

Holmes spoke again, "Your wife, sir. Who has your wife?"

"How do you. . ."

Sherlock sighed, not in annoyance but rather that he was glad this part had come. In rapid fire speed and crisp diction, Sherlock explained to the man with a knife to John's throat.

"You have the clothing, hair, boots, and scent of a man who works in a factory. Not on an assembly line. No, you are slightly more specialised than that. You're a mechanic. Your hands are stained with years of work; toughened by it. You are used to working and you don't mind it. How do I know that? Well, you're hair is a mess but your face, ah your face, you are happy. Anyone who has had your job for as long as you have and hated it, well it would show; wrinkles, sir! You are happily married. A lonely factory mechanic wouldn't be content the way you are."

The man's grip had slackened only slightly. John had relaxed to a point and was more impatient than afraid now. The attacker queried again, "But how do you know someone has her?" Sherlock's reply came almost bothered. "I was getting to that." He smirked at the man, but John's expression checked him.

"You have a clean, light tint area on your finger where a ring had been. It was removed recently and not because the marriage has ended. You are not here to rob us because you are used to working and are content with it. Furthermore, John and I are all but famous as consulting detectives. You aren't here to prove anything and you're not here to rob us, but you need us in particular. You took your ring off and gave it to your wife as a token. A promise to return. You are being forced to attack us, for some reason, by whoever has your wife, but not to kill us. No; you are holding the knife backwards, with the spine to my colleague's throat."

John reacted to this with more than a touch of anger and wrestled himself free.

"You could have told me that sooner, Sherlock!"

"You didn't feel that, John? Surely. . ."

"No! I don't have knives held to my throat on a regular basis."

"You should."

"What?!" John shouted.

"I mean, you should run that experiment. An extraordinary amount of crucial information can be learned by experimenting on yourself."

"Sherlock. . ."

John stopped himself from continuing the confrontation. Instead he returned attention to the man now standing with the knife awkwardly held in lowered hand. Sherlock took the weapon away in one smooth action, raising it to the light.

"For example, John, this is a simple hunting knife. Dull enough, but it would work to stab someone. But more than that, this man held it without confidence in a way that would scare you, but not actually threaten you."  
John was not over his anger, "But you saw him outside and you let me walk into his attack. How could you possibly have known he wouldn't kill me?"

"Because, John, a lot can be told of a person when observing them when they think no one can see them."  
Sherlock pointed the knife at the man, who reacted with a startled jump. John, of course, knew Sherlock was no longer thinking of the knife as any threat.

"He was pacing, John. He was pacing and distraught. I needed a closer look and I couldn't very well do that within his grip. So it had to be you."  
Sherlock studied John's expression. Lips pressed together. Hand resisting the urge to make fists. Brows furrowed the way they do when Sherlock's missed something pertaining to humanity.

"I should apologise." This was a question as much as a statement.

"Yes, Sherlock. You should."

"Right. Sorry John. But you do see the logic, correct?"

John took in a breath with closed eyes as he tipped his head to one side. With his exhale he replied, "Yes. Fine. I understand."

Sherlock smiled, "Good, now!" He whirled to face the man again. "Let's get on with this case. I am eager to begin!"


	3. Chapter 3

"Tell me your name."

Sherlock's voice was dry. He sat opposite their new client with his fingertips all pressed together. His excitement seemed to have dissipated in the brief time it took to climb the stairs into the flat. John knew, of course, that this was Sherlock simply getting to business. The game, as he would say, is on.

"N-no, I can't," the client muttered.

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eye. "After everything else I already know about you, what's in a name?"

John entered the sitting room from the kitchen. He handed the client a hot cup of tea. His hands were shaking as he took the drink with uneasy gratitude. John decided that he should step in with his trained bedside manner, as it were. He quietly cleared his throat as he sat at the table. Leaning forward, John spoke in a calm tone.

"We don't need to know your name to help. Right, Sherlock?"

The question was meant more as a statement. It was John telling Sherlock to move forward. The human touch. It was John's role and he was happy to play it. Sherlock stifled a protest. It was a small grimace, a gritting of the teeth for the briefest moment. Then, abruptly, the consulting detective stood.

"Fine," Sherlock stated flatly. "Then tell me why you're here. It isn't to solve a case, we know that much."

The tension on the man's face spread down to his shoulders; and then into his hands. The sloshing tea was escaping over the rim of the cup, just as tears began escaping from under pressed lids. Sherlock regarded the man with little patience. He was too preoccupied with his own annoyance to foresee what happened next.

John had just turned away from the scene to set his cup of tea on a coaster beside his laptop. So he only heard the client's teacup hit the floor. John snapped his attention back just in time to witness the stranger stand bolt upright before Sherlock. Still in one fluid movement, the desperate man had made a fist and swung it skillfully to connect with Sherlock's jaw. With hardly a sound, Sherlock went limp and fell into his chair, slumped and unconscious.

"Sherlock!" John stood quickly enough to tip his chair backward. He was heading for Sherlock first which was, as he realised a moment later, a mistake. The mechanic stopped John's advance with one solid grip on his throat. Backpedalling, John was forced across the room until his shoulders slammed into the wall beside the door. The would-be client's hold was firm, but was not choking him.

"What are you doing?!" John grunted; eyes still on Sherlock.

The man's crying had resumed at present. "I'm sorry. I. . . Please forgive me, Dr Watson. It's my wife. . . They told me not to tell you anything. Not even my name." John turned his attention to the weeping man. He was now aware that his own breathing was coming in quick, shallow gasps. Military training told him to slow it down or he would become disorientated. He drew in a long breath.

"Wh-why. . . What do they want?"

The mechanic's head had been hanging low at his shoulders. John could see the tears falling, dropping without touching the pained expression. Sherlock still lay without motion. John worried that he may be seriously injured. When it seemed the man was distracted and didn't intend on answering him, John tried once again to break free. The man raised his head.

"They. . . want you."

John felt a distinct tension form in the pit of his stomach. It was that icy realisation that what was about to happen was inescapable. So when he saw the man's free hand lift and form a fist John Watson did little more than release a sigh laced with dread. And the moment before the knuckles connected with his cheekbone, snapping his head back hard enough against wall to render him unconscious, John thought to himself, "Oh, not again."


	4. Chapter 4

A slow, unwilling awareness came to Sherlock as he woke. First was the throbbing ache in his jaw where the fist had connected. Second was the sharper, more acute pain in his neck from when the blow's momentum snapped his head to one side hard enough to trigger the body's natural self-defense; unconsciousness. Had he not gone limp as such his neck would surely have snapped. The result would have been death. Lastly, Sherlock grew aware how quiet the apartment was. This was the point when all recollection returned.

"John," Sherlock called out, though more as a half-groan.

There was no answer. Sherlock sat himself up awkwardly and with much effort. His blinking, disorientated eyes scanned the room. John's chair was tipped over backward. Nothing else appeared out of place. Sherlock ambled to the table; touched the side of John's coffee cup. Cold. Sherlock Holmes deduced it had been hours since he'd been knocked unconscious. Then he saw the evidence left for him like a pawn on a chess board. One single boot, the mechanic's boot, left just in the doorway.

Sherlock's thoughts came as one solid understanding. They'd taken John. Left a clue. They intend for me to follow. They know I will. Abducting John was to ensure I'd follow and a play toward any possible emotional reaction that may lead to my being vulnerable. People are prone to rash behaviour when someone's life is in danger. I'll run forensics on the boot, the grime and dirt in the treads; follow the data to find John.  
Then the questions started. These, Sherlock spoke aloud, disregarding that he was alone. "But why? What's with the game? They had me. They overpowered John, took him, left me with a piece of a puzzle. But what's the motive? The reason. . . What am I missing?"

Sherlock had been pacing the floor until this point. He stopped, boot in hand, realising that he was only left with one move – follow the clues. His eyes fell to the table again. John's jacket lay atop it. Sherlock took two long strides and picked it up. Underneath was the knife: John hadn't been taken at knife point. His phone was still in the pocket: no way to call for help, or to be tracked. Another swift few strides had Sherlock checking the drawer where John's gun usually had been left. Still there. So John either left willingly or had also been rendered unconscious.  
The consulting detective moved toward the door with purpose. He was one step past the threshold when he stopped abruptly. Backing up a half-step, Sherlock noticed the last conclusive piece of evidence he needed to focus his mind. Blood. On the wall. At John's height. A familiar colour of short hair accompanied it. The deduction; John did not go willingly. And he was hurt. That bit of knowledge steeled his intent.

* * *

Before John Watson opened his eyes he felt the cold metal grate pressed against his face. He also felt his hands tied securely behind his back and the dried blood on the back of his head. As he opened his eyes he was startled to see an open vacancy below him of some several stories. Only after the burst of adrenaline that ripped his mind into awareness did he understand that he was on a catwalk of scaffolding in some disused part of a factory.

As he took in his surroundings, John found himself to be guarded by two masked men on either side of the scaffolding. With him on the stretch of catwalk was a young woman. Presumably the wife of the mechanic, John thought. She too was tied and laying prone on the metal mesh. He meant to say something, but discovered his mouth had been duct taped. An annoyed acceptance wiped across his face. The mechanic's voice could now be heard somewhere below them.

"You said. . . You promised if I brought Dr Watson that you'd let Susan go. I did it. Can I have her back? Please? You said. . ." It was bordering on panicked rambling now. Another voice answered.

"I meant what I said. You can have her back. Soon."

"When? Is there something else I'm meant to do first?"

"I'll be in touch. You just wait here."

A door was heard shutting. The sound had a large, echoing resonance like some terrible finality. John recognised the sobs that followed as the mechanic's. It occurred to him that the mechanic wouldn't see them where he and the wife – Susan, as he overheard – were being held. Few people look up. John moved his legs to maneuver his way to sit up.

He hadn't even gotten his knees beneath him when he felt a rifle barrel press firmly just behind his ear. It was held with enough force to hold his head still, excluding the danger. To signal he understood, John relaxed, stretching his fingers out as another form of surrender. The tape over his mouth made it hard to breathe now that the fear had engaged his sympathetic nervous system. Watson gritted his teeth under the tape. He felt the barrel lift, but not the threat.

John's eyes turned upward, the angle needed to see the woman he had joined in captivity. Her tear-reddened eyes met his gaze and John's expression tried to convey an apology. But another look came after. An expression with which he intended to give hope. John wished he could tell her what he knew; that Sherlock Holmes was on the case. And that, John Watson knew, was plenty to place hope in. Then that unrecognised voice sounded from somewhere just behind John, "Everyone is in position."

And suddenly John Watson lost his certainty. He closed his eyes, let himself feel the cold metal grate against his face, and wondered if Sherlock might be too injured to help. Renewed dread sank into John's heart.


	5. Chapter 5

John had laid face down on the grate of the catwalk for hours now. He couldn't be certain of the time, but figured it was well past midnight. The hunger that had gripped him had developed into a fatigue close to nausea. He had managed to work the bit of duct tape off by moving his jaw and rubbing it on his shoulder and the grating beneath him. Somehow he accomplished this without being stopped. Then for the first time since his attempt to get up, which was met with a rifle behind the ear, John cleared his throat to speak. It was just the one gunman towering over him and Susan, the first kidnapping victim.

"Who's in charge? Can I. . .can I speak with. . ."

Again, the muzzle touched the base of his skull. It startled John, as he hadn't heard the man move. John's eyes met with the woman's again. Her tears had dried, but were streaked with the run of mascara. John assumed knowing her husband was just below them had calmed her some. Though the gun was still to his head, he spoke again.

"You won't shoot. You, or someone here, need us for something, yeah?" Still no answer, but the threat didn't press any harder either. "Look," John continued. "I haven't eaten all day and something tells me my. . . companion here hasn't either."

"So?" the rough whisper came.

"So, I want to talk to whoever is in charge. Perhaps we can negotiate. . ."

The sound of a door opening just behind and outside of John's peripheral vision stopped him. The commanding voice he had heard earlier came quietly, but retained its authority.

"You must forgive us Dr Watson, we will not be providing anything to eat tonight."

"Fine," John stated sarcastically. "It was an excuse to get us talking really. I presume you're the one in control here."

"Oh, good. . . Establishing who's in control. Very good. You very nearly sounded like a police negotiator there, Dr Watson."

"So you're not in charge then?"

"Oh no, I am in charge. But not in control."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" John questioned; his attitude showing. It occurred to him that the presence of the gun no longer bothered him as much as it had.

"I'm here at the direction of someone else. The one pulling the strings. You, me, Susan here – even Sherlock Holmes – we're all his marionettes."

"Who?" And as quickly as John asked he knew. A low sigh escaped his lips which told the other there was no need to answer. John spoke the name, "Moriarty."

"Top marks, indeed, Dr Watson."

John allowed himself a moment to deal with that revelation. It was as if suddenly everything felt much more solid. The metal beneath him felt colder, harder against his ribs. The chill of it seemed to sink in a rush clear through to his spine. He swallowed dryly, eyes closed, before forcing himself to continue the conversation.

"Well that explains why this is all so elaborate. I was wondering why you wouldn't just. . .deal with Sherlock when you had the chance. Moriarty likes to watch him, what was it? Dance? I think. . ."

"Sounds like him."

"So what, we just wait for Sherlock? And then what?"

"You'll see."

"No," John braved getting angry. "No, you tell me. Are you going to just gun him down? I figured Moriarty would want to do that himself."

A low, rumbling creak was heard as the large sliding doors to the factory where being pushed open below them. The rifle pressed hard against John's neck once again. The man answered John in a quiet voice, just above a whisper.

"Moriarty's watching."

Dread seized John just as the silhouetted figure of Sherlock Holmes appeared in the gap of the industrial doors.

Sherlock assessed the location in the duration of one broad-sweeping scan. He saw the mechanic just standing to his feet, having been crouched against the wall on an enclosed office-type room. Judging by the man's expression, a general defeated sorrow, Sherlock knew that he had yet to reclaim his wife. It appeared the man had been waiting beside a solid metal door. His unfamiliarity with the place became evident, which told Sherlock that this wasn't the area of the factory the mechanic worked in – though he had already worked that part out.

"Interesting clue; the boot," Sherlock stated.

It was directed toward the mechanic, but spoke loudly enough to reach the ears of those he knew were listening. He stepped further into the wide open space inside the factory. Sherlock stopped and tilted his head decisively back to look directly at the scaffolding above – directly at John and the mechanic's wife. He smiled at being correct and spoke again.

"Though I found it a bit excessive; I could've found this place with just the contents of a footprint, for future reference."

"He'll keep that in mind. . ." A man's voice sounded from above.

"He. . . Ah, yes. Of course. So!" Sherlock threw his arms open wide and turned in a circle, slowly, as he moved further into the factory. "I'm here! But why this game? Haven't we played this one before, Jim?"

"I'm not him." The voice came again.

"Don't insult my incredible intelligence. Of course I knew that. But he's watching, isn't he? He's listening."

"Of course."

"Fine, good. Now what do you want? No. First, you let this man's wife go."

The mechanic's face indicated intense surprise. It appeared to Sherlock that he had been bracing himself for an altercation with the victim of his stunning right hook. The demand for the release of his wife came as its own version of the same. At first; silence, then a brief, gruff reply.

"Not yet."

Sherlock's anger flashed to the surface spreading colour across his typically pale face. "Then what do you want?!" The boom of his voice echoed like the dying of thunder. Sherlock didn't wait for an answer, "I'm here, so. . ." His intensity died off almost as quickly as it had flared up. "Of course. . ." he said, just to himself.

"You've worked it out now, haven't you?"

"Obviously."

"So what are you going to do about it?"

"John?" Sherlock made sure his voice could be heard by whom he addressed. Nothing. "Let him answer!"

Sherlock saw the rifle rise, then realising that it had been pointed at John's head the entire time. It wasn't that he had previously ignored this. Rather, the angle had made this difficult to observe. John's voice was weary, but held its usual clipping strength.

"Yes Sherlock?"

"Will you be fine a few hours more?"

"What?" John snapped, confusedly. "Why?"

"Because," Sherlock called up to him, "it isn't me they are after. They are after the one person only I can bring them. Am I right?"

The man's laughter filled the room with its low register, "Indeed Mr Holmes."

"So I thought." Sherlock directed his conversation toward John again, "You see, I can only demand the release of the wife. . ." He looked to the mechanic, "What's her name?"

"Susan."

"Ah. I can only demand Susan's release as show of good faith. You hear me, Moriarty? They leave with me or I don't leave at all."

"He says, 'Quite right.'"

Sherlock could see the man, the one who spoke for Moriarty, help Susan to her feet. She stumbled a little; she hasn't stood all day. They had to help her step over John who still lay prone on the catwalk. The consulting detective was nearly certain he heard her whisper an apology to John as she was lead into the enclosed tower. It would be just over a minute before she emerged from the door beside her husband.

Sherlock raised his voice again, addressing his friend. "I'm sorry John, to have to leave you here. Do you understand?"

"No. Well, yes. But who do they want that only you can. . . Right, of course. Mycroft."

"Indeed."

"Sherlock. . ."

Sherlock looked up, seeking the place that would give the semblance of eye contact, since the distance made it hard to be sure.

"Yes John?"

"Will he come; Mycroft? It's always a bit dodgy with you two."

And Sherlock was glad John wouldn't truly be able to see the uncertainty that had fallen across his face. "Of course, John." His voice carried the lie of complete assurance.

The door opened to a tearful reunion of husband and wife. Both did not waste time in getting behind Sherlock, heading toward the door. Holmes backed his way to standing just between the sliding doors. Silhouetted once more, he paused. John's voice came distantly.

"And Sherlock, when you get back. . ."

"Yes?"

"You bloody well had better have something for me to eat."

Sherlock actually laughed, "Pizza was it?"

"Yeah."

Sherlock nodded, knowing the action wouldn't be seen. "Of course. Good bye, John."

The doors rumbled and connected shut in a resounding punctuation. John felt the sad wash of silence. And, for a long moment, didn't bother to acknowledge the presence of his captors.


	6. Chapter 6

**Thank you for all the favs and reviews! I'm glad that you enjoyed this and much as I enjoyed writing it! Here's the conclusion:**

* * *

Sherlock Holmes stood as still as a statue on the corner of a not-so-busy London intersection. His chin was tilted slightly upward; eyes fixed on a small fixture on the building opposite. The swarm of nightlife continued on around the consulting detective, the people adjusting their path like river water moves around a stone.

Holmes felt the chill in the soles of his shoes, but it was merely an observation rather than an annoyance. His mobile toned to indicate a text had been received. A small twitch of a smile touched his lips. He withdrew the phone.

'What are you doing, Sherlock?  
M'

Again Sherlock smiled. He hit the keys in quick order and sent his reply.

'You have already worked that out, haven't you?  
-SH'

Hardly a moment passed before a black car slowly rolled around the corner and stopped beside Holmes. Sherlock's reflection in the tinted window showed him the weary circles under his eyes. Again, simply an observation. Vanity has little value unless played upon to gain data. That window rolled down to reveal a press-lipped, sighing Mycroft.

"Sherlock, I assume you have good reason for staring into that CCTV camera for the past hour and a half."

"Obviously. It got you here, didn't it?"

"Indeed. Get in, Sherlock."

Sherlock remained in statuette a moment, a natural reaction to defy Mycroft. But the moment didn't last and Sherlock was positive he saw surprise on his brother's face as he quickly stepped into the car. He sat beside Mycroft in silence, feeling the other's eyes assess him. The consulting detective drew a breath to speak and thought it strange when no words came. Mycroft likewise adjusted his demeanor to a much more serious tone.

"Sherlock. . .?"

"We've been under surveillance, John and I. Right?"

A pause, then, "Correct."

"So you already know at least part of what's happened tonight."

Mycroft spoke with gravity, "Yes, I suppose we do."

"Then you may have an indication as to why I'm here."

"I gather that we may have struck upon the first and possibly only time when you are here to ask for my help."

Sherlock sat in silence a long moment. He found that he was not as humiliated or even annoyed as he had expected. The game had been played with genius strategy; every obstacle meant to guide him precisely to this place. He admitted, only to himself, that he now feared the day Moriarty would come for him. And he would. Shaking off the thought, Sherlock turned to look at his brother.

"Yes, Mycroft. I. . .I need your help."

Mycroft Holmes sat back against the door on his side. There was a searching wonder to his expression.

"Could it be, baby brother, that you have actually developed a real friendship?"

Sherlock returned his attention to Mycroft, analysing him. "It could be. You know then? That they're holding John hostage?"

"I do. I have also deduced that I, myself, am meant to be the ransom, correct?"

Sherlock turned to look out of the front windscreen. The expression was the answer. It was a downward glance and a silent pressing of the lips. Mycroft turned to watch a London bus pass by them. They had remained parked and still were. The elder Holmes spoke with the calm dignity of authority.

"Go back to the factory, Sherlock. A plan is already in motion."

Sherlock's head turned toward Mycroft quicker than he intended.

Mycroft continued, "I have been aware of Dr Watson's. . .predicament from the beginning. When I saw you staring into CCTV camera I knew you had been met with difficulty, enough to bring you to the point of actually seeking my attention. Though, really, Sherlock, would a phone call have killed you?"

Sherlock hardly reacted to the final question. He opened the car door and stepped out. He paused briefly and leaned his head back into the car. The parting comment was harder to say than Sherlock expected, after everything else.

"Thank you, Mycroft."

Mycroft's smile was hardly noticeable, but Sherlock could see it.

"Sherlock," he said drawing his brother's attention back. "Tell Moriarty I'll see him soon."

Sherlock Holmes nodded once and closed the door between them. He watched the car drive off and disappear into traffic. Then, back in action, Sherlock hailed a cab and sent himself back in the direction of that remote factory once again.

* * *

Dr Watson found himself roused from delirious exhaustion by the sound of the tall factory doors sliding open. It occurred to him that fatigue and hunger had dimmed his strength significantly. He recognised that it was his military training that held Watson's strength these past few hours. To John's relief Sherlock entered below, visible as a small figure from the catwalk where he lay still restrained.

Though it was difficult to make out given the distance, John was sure he saw the consulting detective look directly at him. Sherlock's voice came across the expanse.

"How are you doing, John?"

It surprised John that nothing came out the first time he meant to speak. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I'm fine. Mostly."

"I'm sorry I hadn't the time to get the pizza you requested."

Sherlock's tone was mostly amused. John knew this was meant to lighten the tension of their circumstances.

"Fine, well, I'm more for eggs and toast now. And coffee. That'd be. . ."

A voice interrupted firmly, but without yelling, "Quiet."

It was the voice of the man apparently taking orders from Moriarty. Sherlock moved further into the factory. He raised his hands in an exaggerated shrug. When he spoke, John could hear the seriousness in his friend's voice.

"I've spoken to Mycroft. Of course you'd know that. Why else would I have returned?"

"And?" the man queried.

"And what can I say about my big brother? He prefers to make his own entrance."

"He is coming then?"

"He has assured me as much." Sherlock took out a cigarette at this point and lit it before speaking again. "So, now what? Surely you can let my colleague free to join me in the sites of your rifle?"

John could hear the man muttering something. It became clear to Watson that his captor was consulting with someone through a phone or other device. He assumed, of course, it was Jim Moriarty with whom the man spoke. Answer that came surprised the army doctor.

"Indeed. . . You cannot leave the building, of course."

"Of course," Sherlock replied below.

Moments later John felt his bonds removed. The gun touched the back of his head before he could turn to look towards the one releasing him. He recognised the gunman's voice.

"Eyes down, mate. Keep 'em on your shoes and just follow the stairs down."

"Okay, yeah. Got it." John spoke through the renewed adrenaline. As he stood, Watson felt the dizziness of low blood sugar and prolonged anxiety. He needed the handrails of the catwalk to help him make it to the door. The flights of stairs went the same. By the time he reached the final door John had managed to regain enough stability not to need support. Still, Sherlock met him at the door and took hold of his shoulders.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, Sherlock."

"Are you sure? Because. . ."

"I'm fine, really. Well, maybe not fine. We still do have guns pointed at us."

"Yes, indeed."

The man in charge spoke again. "Step further back into the open."

"What," Sherlock spoke, still complying. "So you can have a better shot at us?"

"If Mycroft comes, then that shouldn't be necessary."

"Oh, yes. A shining example of assurance, that statement."

Then something happened that John couldn't quite make out. It sounded as if the man were suddenly distracted by trying to get an answer from his would-be boss, Moriarty. Furthermore, Watson realised that the helicopter he had heard was much louder, much closer. He looked to Sherlock to gauge his friend's reaction. There was amusement there, but also apprehension.

The man on the catwalk didn't even try to not be heard now. "Moriarty?! What's happening? What should we do?"

A pause in activity settled for the briefest moment. Whether it was his training or that he had gotten a feel for the situation, Watson wasn't sure. But a horrible certainty struck the former army doctor, and John knew – a moment too late – what was coming. His body reacted with military speed and precision, leaning his weight in Sherlock's direction. Pushing with the tread of his boots John threw himself hard against his friend. Simultaneous to this action was John's shout, the emphasis on the latter syllable, "Sherlock!" Another sound, a high pitch grunt followed from John as both fell to the damp cement. It was then they heard the gunshot.

Sherlock assessed the moment automatically, as a matter of personality. The delay in hearing the shot: distance. The deductions continued. Resonance of the sound: high powered rifle. Distance and caliber of rifle: sniper. Lack of silencer: a sniper with no qualms with being heard. This indicated, more likely, that the gunman was an excellent shot, used to hitting his target the first time.

Then as if by flashback another sound came to the forefront of thought, through the mental storm perpetually held in Sherlock's mind. The high pitch, abrupt exhale from John as they fell: the bullet had found a target. "John!"

Sherlock whirled to face where John had landed just behind him. Watson's face was pale, eyes glassy, as observable between rapid, stunned blinks. He lay, unmoving, against the grimy cement; a spray of blood had speckled the visible side of John's face. During his snap assessment Sherlock wasn't able to discern the precise locality, nor the severity of the gunshot wound. The consulting detective's voice came unintentionally quiet this time, "John. . ."

Watson recalled with shocking clarity exactly how it had felt to take that bullet back in Afghanistan. The pain has been a secondary realisation. The first; being made aware, quite suddenly, that his leg was no longer functioning properly. Being a medical doctor, he had quickly understood the problem was not with his leg, but rather with the bullet now lodged somewhere in his lower torso, the hip perhaps.

The shock of that injury had stayed with him far after the physical healing in the form of the psychosomatic limp of which Sherlock had cured him. On that battlefield, in the midst of a firefight with the injured lying beside him – the army doctor – Captain John Watson had been sure he was going to die. But now, this moment, this gunshot wound; this was much, much worse. Yet, above all the pain and realisation, John knew one thing with absolute certainty; Sherlock was still in the line of fire.

John's words came in plosive exhales, stopping and starting to accommodation the sharp gasps interrupting him. "Sh—Sherlock. . . Go. . . Take cover." As instinct, he knew the sniper would reposition for a better shot of his original target. "Now, Sherlock. . ." And he could see the strain of horror on Sherlock's face as he obeyed. Running to place the flat of his back against the door John had exited minutes before, Sherlock Holmes screamed out to the man in charge.

"Why did you that?! Moriarty would never. . ."

"Moriarty is gone!" The man's voice was hoarse in the scream. There was fear in it too.  
Sherlock looked back toward John. It was difficult to see if he was still breathing.

"I had nothing to do with that! Mycroft. . ."

Another gunshot rang out. Sherlock looked back toward Watson. Nothing different. A man's scream. The same as the one who had been speaking. Another gunshot. The helicopter began to sound more distant. Then an eerie silence fell over the place.  
Sherlock stood and braved walking out into the open. He could see two men lying dead on the catwalk above. No other sign of activity. Holmes went straight for John. His friend was still breathing, but his eyes were mostly shut with only the faintest movement of blinking. Sherlock put his palm to the wound, knowing he needed to slow the blood loss. Mycroft's voice came from the open factory doors.

"An ambulance is already on the way."

Sherlock's expression lit with fury. "I was wrong to think I could trust you!"  
Mycroft approached, but remained distant in his demeanor. "You have every right to be angry with me Sherlock. I never meant for Dr Watson to be injured."

"Injured?!" Sherlock roared. "He may be dying. And you caused this!"

"Yes, I don't deny that."

"Just go." Sherlock's voice was all but a growl.

Mycroft raised his chin with an inhale. "I understand. I'll be speaking with James Moriarty soon. Is there anything I should know first?"

"About him? Or me?" Sherlock looked hard at his brother. No reply was given. Sherlock followed with one more question, mostly directed at himself, "What's the difference?"

When he looked up again, Sherlock found that Mycroft had gone. Instead a team of paramedics hurried in, seeming to have already been informed of the situation. Sherlock got out of their way, but stayed close. It interested Sherlock to see that John had yet to lose consciousness. To draw a conclusion with this data, the consulting detective knew it could only indicate incredible strength of mind and willpower. Though Sherlock had known these qualities about his friend it occurred to him in this moment that he was now witnessing the proof.

* * *

After hours of waiting, Sherlock was finally allowed into the recovery room where John was just coming out of the haze of pain killers. John mustered a smile despite everything then spoke first.

"So I didn't die."

"Indeed. I'm glad. I'd be lost without my blogger."

Watson's laugh was more in his expression than audible. Sherlock allowed the moment to turn solemn, his hands held behind his back all the while.

"Thank you, John. You've saved my life. Again."

"Of course. Don't mention it."

Sherlock smiled as he came closer. "So how's the food in this place?"

"Ghastly. . ." John laughed again, though winced this time.

"Then I've brought us something." Sherlock brought a familiarly shaped box around from behind his back.

"Pizza?" John fought a new wave of laughter. "You are mad, Sherlock."

"I promised, didn't I?" He opened the box and took out a slice; one for John then one for himself.

John answered, "I suppose you did."

Unceremoniously they each took a bite. John watched for Sherlock's reaction. "You know," Holmes spoke after swallowing. "I amazed to find I actually like this. Who would have thought something called 'pizza' would be so appetizing?"

He continued on in his usual manner, but Watson barely listened. He just smiled and realised how strangely normal he felt, as if he hadn't just nearly died, again. John knew then that as long as he had Sherlock's friendship he would be fine.

* * *

FIN.


End file.
